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With that, she floated away, leaving me to head toward the freight elevator, scooting past all the ruckus that Sway, Riff, and Raff were creating.
In a few hours, I bet the clubhouse would be full of women and music and good times.
If I were feeling up to it, I’d have loved to be a part of it.
As it was, though, the idea of a bed and quiet just sounded too good to pass up on.
The only problem was, I had no freaking idea where Slash’s room was.
In fact, I only knew where Judge’s room was because I’d been in there when Dell was breastfeeding the baby.
Most of the doors in the hall were open, and I went ahead and glanced inside each of them.
Judge and Dell’s was, of course, full of baby stuff.
Sway’s was a bachelor’s masterpiece, which was fitting.
Crow’s room had Morgaine’s touches all over it now. Dried flowers and herbs. Soft feminine touches. A pottery wheel.
Another room that was lined with bookshelves and had a sort of airy, minimalistic, but warm, feel I felt must have belonged to Coach.
“Babe,” Slash called, making me glance over to find him standing in the middle of the hall.
“Sorry. I don’t know which is yours,” I admitted.
“Right here,” he said, waving toward his door, then holding out an arm as if to invite me to his side. Where I went. Hesitantly, but happily, even leaning into him a bit when his arm went around my waist as he steered me toward his bedroom.
All of the bedrooms were enormous in the clubhouse. I guess that was the perk when your home was a giant manufacturing plant in a previous life, meaning there was a lot of square footage to spare. As far as I knew, the next floor up was still unfinished, leaving tons of room to grow.
I had no idea what to imagine Slash’s room might be like.
I mean, sure, the clubhouse was actually surprisingly nice inside. But a part of me figured that maybe that was thanks to Detroit who seemed to be a little more in touch with things like design and what makes a house feel like a home.
But, clearly, Slash had his own sense of style because his room was nice.
The walls were painted a deep gray color that, where the light hit it, seemed to have hints of a dark blue to the undertone. The crown molding and frame to the king-sized bed were all a rustic dark wood that had very little—if any—shine to it.
There were two framed photographs above the bed in thick, black frames. And black seemed to be his favorite accent color. The light above the bed, the lamps on the nightstands, and the couch along the side of the room were all black as well.
The bedding and the carpet that was under the bed, though, had lighter, neutral shades instead.
There was a door slightly open to a small, private bathroom.
It was very masculine, but in a well-thought-out way. Not cheesy leather and chrome, or cold because it lacked those little touches that made a room comfortable.
“Wow,” I said, nodding as I looked over at him. “This is nice.”
“Glad you like it because it’s where you’re going to be parking that sweet ass of yours at least until we figure out this situation.”
At least until.
That hadn’t escaped me.
It was an open invitation.
For the future.
One I wanted to accept more than I could have ever anticipated.
